Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)

by Veronica Larsen

  This wasn't something I was meant to witness.

  Owen clears his throat. "Give me a second, let me text my sister. Need to make sure Landon stays put. He's grounded. Probably for the rest of his life."

  The seconds drag on until he sends the message and turns to face me again. But the frustration and anger is still etched into every line of his face so I look away, not knowing what to say.

  Owen rubs his face then flashes a half-smile in my direction. "Sorry about that. Kids...."

  When I speak, I keep my tone light, as though I'm unaware of the tension radiating from him, pulling his jaw muscles tight. "You know, Owen, we can paint some other night. It's fine with me if you want to reschedule."

  "No," he says quickly. "It's better for everyone if I stay here with you." He does a slow turn around the room. "Where are the paint cans?"

  I point to them, wondering if the rest of our night will be spent pretending he isn't in an awful mood. It's not that I blame him. I just wish I knew how to fix it.

  Owen opens a can of paint and, peeking at the color, raises an eyebrow at me. "Really?"

  "What?"

  "This is the color of…I don't even think anything this bright exists in nature."

  I wave away his words. "Quit exaggerating, it's a pale yellow. This place is small, it needs brighter colors."

  "If you say so." He glances around. "Where are the paint rollers?"

  "Rollers? I thought we could make do with these." I hold up a pair of brushes and laugh when his smile falls away. "Relax, I'm kidding. Paint rollers are over there." I point to a plastic bag containing the rest of the painting supplies.

  We start painting the same wall, running our rollers in lengthy strokes. There's something comforting about the action. Coating the wall with paint is relaxing. Owen's shoulders relax with each downward stroke, and he seems pleased with himself when we finish a wall. Although, I can't help but notice it takes me twice the effort to coat my section. Owen's roller leaves perfectly even patch on the walls whereas mine are uneven and a bit streaky.

  "I think my roller is broken."

  "No. You're not putting the right pressure on it," he says.

  "Show me."

  He sets his roller down in the container and comes up behind me. His arms come around, hands wrapping over mine. With that simple touch, he sets me on fire.

  Bringing his lips to my ear, he says, "Like this." He pulls my hands down to guide the roller over the wall, applying firm pressure. My paint roller leaves a perfect, even stroke.

  "Oh." His scent and body heat wrap around me, slowing down my thoughts.

  I love when he's behind me. There's nothing like the feeling of his large, powerful build holding mine.

  "Just keep applying even pressure," he says, but as he brings my roller back down again, he also presses his lower body against me and I feel something there, stirring alive.

  "Like this?" I pull the roller back up, but press myself even further into him.

  His voice is thick when he whispers, "Just like that."

  Then he lowers a hand to my waist, setting me on fire there, too. His other hand remains over mine where my clasp on the roller's handle grows weaker. Owen pries the tool from my hand and lets the roller drop onto the plastic covered floor.

  He spins me around to face him and pulls me close, so I can feel how incredibly hard he is.

  "What's the matter," I taunt, "having trouble concentrating?"

  "Only every time I'm near you."

  I eye our drinks on the living room table. His lays untouched. I lower my voice playfully. "How about we get liquored up and have wild, drunken sex? Maybe slip into places not often ventured?"

  "You know, drunk sex is overrated. Why would you ever want to dull a single sensation?"

  I narrow my eyes and circle around him like a predator. "Fine. We can get drunk after. Dull the soreness you leave me in."

  "Why is it so important we get drunk?"

  "It's a rule of mine," I say, making my precondition up on a whim." I need to see you drunk. At least once. What if you're a violent drunk, hmm? Shouldn't I figure that out before I let you slip into places not often ventured?"

  He laughs. "I can save you the trouble. Because I don't drink."

  "Oh," I say, the single word carrying heavy disappointment.

  He watches me carefully in the moment that passes, his expression slips against some shadow of a thought crossing his mind. He seems to cast it all away with a deliberate breath and, without warning, sweeps me off my feet. Literally. I snicker gleefully at the way he carries me across the room like I'm some fair maiden he's rescued from the forest. A fair maiden that's about to be screwed to kingdom come.

  Owen sets me on the kitchen counter so that my ass is right on the edge of it. In one swift movement, he peels off my dress, tugging it firmly from beneath where I sit and dragging it over my head. Hooking a hand under each of my knees, he pulls my legs up, propping them on the counter, on both sides of me, and I fall back onto my elbows. I'm spread-eagle.

  Holy hell, the ways he handles me.

  His grin is sinful, as though noticing something in my expression. He runs a big, rough hand up from my abdomen to the concave between my breasts, bringing it to rest at the base of my neck, fingers curling gently. It's a subtle move of possession, letting me know my body is his. Desire throbs through me like a pulse. His fingers trail over the exposed skin of my inner thighs and I swear all the windows in my loft fog at once.

  "How fond are you of your panties?" he asks.

  "They're brand new." I'm struggling to form words, but I manage to add, "I barely know them, really."

  His fingers find the top of my underwear and yank on them. Hard. I gasp as the material momentarily cuts into the skin over my hipbones before the ripping sound cuts through the air. Owen casts the flimsy thong aside.

  A moan parts my lips as his fingers discover how badly I want him. I tilt my head back as he rubs me. The electric storm between my legs makes it impossible to think of anything but his touch. My skin is on fire and his hands are relentless and unafraid, rough as coal and fueling my heat into a full-blown flame. I'm hurting for him to be inside of me.

  Eyes shut, I have no idea what he intends to do next until his lips find mine below. I groan out. Loud. He savors me slowly at first. But his tastes turn to nipping, and then he devours me with increasing vigor. Out of nowhere, he gives my clit one sudden, sharp suck.

  "Oh God," I breathe out. My back arches upward, pulled by the firing nerves running up and down my core.

  Reality blurs away, intoxicating lust pulls a veil over all of my other senses. All I know is his lips on me. I'm clutching the edge of the counter and twisting my hips any way I can to grind against his face and show him with my movements how incredibly good he's making me feel. Owen's waging an assault on my body, concentrating all his forces on the one small spot where the war is won.

  I've never been tasted like this before. This man knows what he's doing. He knows how much pressure to put where, he knows how to weave over all the sensitive spots. When to be rough, when to pull back. He puts his whole damn head into it.

  Jesus Christ.

  It's like he knows exactly what I'm itching for before I even decide, scratching the perfect place every single time. His tongue massages my most sensitive spot long enough to put me on edge and then tortuously moves to another itch.

  He's a fucking professional, bringing me to the brink of orgasm three or four times and somehow, defiantly, keeps me right there until I'm begging in a desperate whisper for him to make me come.

  He slides a finger inside of me, all the while tasting me, and lets out a groan as I squeeze around it. His finger pulses in and out of me to the rhythm of my uneven heartbeat. One of my legs hooks over his shoulder, pulling his face further into me. He must know, somehow, how close I am, because he lightly drags his teeth against me. My eyes fly open as the sting of pain twists instantly to insane ecstasy that plunges me into an e
xplosive orgasm. I'm sure my spine dissolved and my body is left boneless.

  I laugh. That felt so damn good I don't know what else to do but laugh.

  "Does that mean you want more?" Owen asks. The look in his eyes tells me he's still starving. And I'm on the menu. "I'll give you more."

  He drops his pants and pulls off his shirt. And in a low growl that nearly plunges me into another orgasm, he says, "You drive me crazy."

  I wait for him to wrap himself, shutting my eyes and focusing on the way my pulse pumps furiously as a different, more maddening intensity throbs between my thighs.

  He pushes inside of me and my legs twist tight around him, body heaving on the surface of the counter as he pumps in and out of me with delicious rhythm.

  Owen is over twice my size, easily. He's a muscular guy, more muscles in his hands than I have in my entire body. Yet there's always been a tender, almost fearful nature to the way his hands close over me. His fingers clasp my thighs to keep them steady, but with such a contained force, it makes me suspect he's afraid he'll hurt me by mistake, break me if he gets carried away.

  He's afraid to give me all he's got because he thinks I can't handle it. And the truth is, I'm not sure I can. He drives me over the edge of sanity in the way he takes me, pummeling me to the core with only moderate effort.

  Maybe he should hold back. Maybe he really can break me.

  Owen brings me to orgasm in a way I've never experienced from a man. Usually I'm chasing it, looking for the right stroke to stir it in the right way. Feeling it build and build and sometimes slip from me before it peaks. But with Owen, I'm on the verge the entire time. Constantly agonizing, perpetually exploding.

  Sex with him is a giant impending orgasm. A mind-blowing tease. And somehow, I'm always caught off guard when I finally tumble over that cliff. It's always more intense than I anticipate. This time my voice squeaks embarrassingly as I scream out, my hips thrashing, as he meets me in climax, leaning over to let me taste the sound of his satisfied groans.

  Afterward, we head to my room and lie in bed for a while, me on my back, and him on his side, chest damp with sweat. He strokes my collarbone, seemingly lost in thought as he watches me where I lie, enjoying thinking about nothing but his touch trailing over my skin.

  "What?" I ask, self-conscious. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "Being with you," he pauses to run a finger over my cheek, "is so much more incredible than I ever thought it would be."

  My face seems to forget I'm not the blushing type because my cheeks grow warm. "Be careful, Owen," I tease, "you don't want to go falling in love."

  His features yield to a small grin. "Might be too late to warn me. I'm already there."

  He kisses me without waiting for my response. I'm glad because I'm stunned into silence. This man. He anchors me. God knows I need that.

  And in this moment, I finally understand why Owen was so guarded around me for so long. He wasn't teasing me. It wasn't a game. He was overcompensating for one simple truth. There's a chink in his armor.

  And that chink is me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Owen is intent on wearing me out tonight. I'm spent. Utterly spent and immensely satisfied, as I lie with my head on his chest, breathing in his scent. Neither one of us has said anything in a while and I'm sure he's fallen asleep. But then…

  "I'm still curious," he says, "remember that night you came over for the photographs?"

  I nod, smiling a little.

  "What did you mean, when you said the cheerleading picture brought back bad memories."

  I lift my head to look at him. "That's a strange thing for you to be thinking about."

  "I think about a lot of things." He runs his fingers through my hair, holding out the strands as though admiring the way they glow golden in the light of the lamp. "Most of them have to do with you."

  Resting my chin on his shoulder, I deliberate on what I should say. The topic is bound to ruin the mood, but I can tell he's curious enough to press me for an answer. "My mom had—has issues with addiction."

  "Alcohol?" he asks automatically.

  "Yes. And drugs, too."

  His eyes dart across my face, trying to read my memories so I don't have to share them. But, of course, he can't. And no matter how hard he works to keep his lips pressed together, another question parts them. "Was she violent?"

  "Sometimes. Mostly she just…sort of forgot about us—about my sister and me. Disappeared for a while without telling us if she was ever coming back. Always treated us like a burden. Like we were disposable to her. Little tokens to make people pity her, look at poor Cassandra raising these two girls on her own. But it was bullshit. She didn't raise me. My sister did."

  Owen allows my words to settle into a brief silence then, matter-of-factly, he says, "My father had a nasty temper when I was a kid."

  "Really?"

  "Oh yeah. Drank himself stupid every night." He hesitates a moment, and then, "It's not a heart attack that got him hospitalized. His heart attack was minor, but what they found is that his liver is nearly useless. He's going to need a transplant soon. That's why my sister wants him under her roof. She wants to make sure he doesn't drink himself to death."

  "Jesus."

  We fall silent again as I consider his words, their implication.

  I feel a twitch of insecurity Owen will realize what a stark contrast he is from me. He seems so absolutely steadfast and certain in who he is and what he stands for. When I look at him, I see someone comfortable in his own skin, not just physically, but mentally as well. Someone who has reconciled what he's been through and doesn't let it define him, his relationships, or his future.

  Owen's consistent. Stable. Watching the way he is gives me the impression there's a puzzle in me, one I'm meant to solve before I can even dream to reach his level of comfort.

  I've never known stability, real stability. Just lulls. Moments when things go still and there are no fires to put out. But for the first time in my life, this feels like more than just a lull. This loft, my home, it fills me with a splitting joy. This man, my man, he makes me feel safe and steady. And my new job, it's exactly what I needed, just when I needed it.

  But the unpleasant feeling I've been keeping at bay swirls around in my stomach, obscuring the gratitude and churning along with a low voice in the back of my mind.

  You don't deserve this. You don't deserve any of it.

  "Are you asleep?" Owen asks.

  I lift my head, hoping he doesn't have the secret power to read my thoughts.

  "What are you thinking?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

  What a generic, needy question.

  He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he smiles a little as if he's glad I asked.

  "I'm thinking about how I should've found the damn balls to talk to you, long before that night."

  That night. The night I bothered to glance at him, but not long enough to really register his face. The night of the dance when he got the living crap beaten out of him by my ex-boyfriend.

  "Shit," I say, closing my eyes. The thought of it still makes me cringe. "I hate that Jonathan hurt you like that."

  He shakes his head. "I don't. I'm glad it happened. It taught me a good lesson."

  "What's that?"

  "If you don't want to get beat up, get bigger and learn to fight."

  I run a hand over the curve of his biceps. "And become a cop?"

  "That might've been overkill."

  "Worked in my favor, though," I say. "The uniform. The muscles." I press my lips to his chest and feel them mold over his firm frame.

  "Worked out in my favor, too. Look who ended up with the girl."

  "Don't get cocky," I tease.

  Owen abruptly pulls me up by the underarms, eliciting a shriek of laughter out of me, and settles me onto him until we are both sitting upright, facing each other, my naked body firmly on top of his.

  I shake my head as if in a slow realization. "You can't possibl
y want more already?"

  But even as I say that, I can already tell he's growing hard beneath me.

  "You think there's a second that goes by I don't want more?" He runs a hand down my back and cups my ass, squeezing it and tugging me closer to him, his erection teasing me.

  "How many more times can you possibly screw me before your cock falls off from overuse?"

  "Why don't we try and find out?"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I've forgotten the nuances of being with someone, dancing the line between building intimacy and withholding unflattering information. Lying by omission. Everyone does it, especially in the beginning. It's the novelty of starting something new with another person. Pretending they're a clean slate just because they're new to you, fresh to your eyes. Pretending their history doesn't matter, isn't relevant, as long as you don't bring it to light. Pretending the differences between the two of you are small, inconsequential gaps that won't widen with time.

  Owen doesn't drink and, though he's never said as much, he doesn't like when I drink. His reaction is measured: eyes lingering over the glass of clear liquid in my hand, lips turning slightly downward before bringing his attention back to his dinner.

  I suspect it has to do with his father, but whatever the reason, Owen resists the urge to tell me and so I resist the urge to ask. I pretend I don't notice his disapproval because I'm not doing anything wrong.

  Before Bernstein fired me, I'd have a beer once or twice a week and stronger drinks at bars when I got around to partying, which wasn't often. These days, maybe driven by the boredom of living alone, I indulge in a glass or two of something stronger with more regularity. It's not even the taste I enjoy. I find comfort in the burn.

  Owen will work through the weekend, but thankfully, they're dayshifts so I'll get to see him after work. Though the thought of him having days off this week while I'm stuck in the office really sucks.

  I expect him to spend the night on Sunday but he leaves me early, before the sun even sets. I'm left missing him a lot more than usual and I'm not sure why. A restlessness comes over me that I haven't experienced before, a heaviness in my stomach when the door closes behind him. Dread weighs on me as heavy as the thick silence of the loft.